


Rest and Recuperation

by MohnblumenKind



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Historical Hetalia, M/M, Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:21:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8254054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MohnblumenKind/pseuds/MohnblumenKind
Summary: 1942 Germany. Francis is a prisoner of war and send to a small town to work in a tavern. That is where he meets Gilbert, a German soldier who is on rest and recuperation at home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My wonderful beta for the first chapter is dimtraces. (Thanks for reading it without loving Hetalia! You are the best)
> 
> If you are able to read Chinese, Nora_shangforentropie was so kind to translate this work. You'll find it here: http://norashang.lofter.com/post/1df053cd_ef1ed113 . Thank you very much!
> 
> See the end of the chapters for translations.

**Spring 1942 – Somewhere in the Black Forest, Germany.**

Francis looked out of the window sceptically. For an hour the small train had made its way through the dark forest, now and then stopping in a little village with nothing more than a departure platform, an old railway building and a gravel walk. Sometimes people would get on or off the train, but they were not many. He pondered where they would go. It didn't seem to him that there were any important cities around at all. Maybe some farms or a monastery he suspected to be lost somewhere in a rural landscape.  
Why was he even here?  
A glance at the cabin and its passengers reminded him. There were around 20 men, French soldiers – well, POW, prisoners of war, to be exact – scattered around the cabin, seated in small groups. But they were mostly silent. They were supervised by the stern glares of a handful of German soldiers, blocking the entrance to the cabin or walking rigidly between the benches. Of course they were heavily armed and reserved as always.  
Francis averted his glance and looked back to the window. Better not to provoke the Germans. He had managed to stay out of troubles and alive so far and he had to admit, slightly ashamed of himself, that he liked it to stay like this.  
He could not do anything for his fellow countrymen in France right now, anyway. After 1940 some went to the underground, fighting the occupying forces of the Germans, but Francis himself was captured on the battlefield. There was no use in rebelling against some Germans while being transported through their country, especially unarmed as he was. Even though they were not particularly cruel to their French prisoners – at least for now – he suspected that they would not hesitate at all to shoot him or the others if they moved. So he thought to cooperate for now and keep his head low while they chugged through the Black Forest to an unknown destination.

Francis had already lost track of time and had stopped counting the small villages they had passed when the Germans started to get agitated and busy again. The train reduced its speed and pulled into another station. The German soldiers opened one of the cabin doors and three of them jumped outside.  
“ _Raus_!”, a German exclaimed loudly.  
Francis refrained from rolling his eyes. The Germans could not wrap their head around the fact that not everyone was fluent in their ugly language – well, maybe they were aware, but they did definitely not care whether the prisoners had trouble to understand them or not.  
He got up from his seat at the window and made his way outside, along with the others. They had been POWs for nearly two years by now, so he’d started to get a rough understanding of German. He could actually speak it by now, broken yet understandable, but he definitely tried to avoid to rub it in the faces of the Germans. That was a triumph he did not like to give those bastards.

Outside, the Germans herded them down a road. They were actually pretty cheerful. While they still kept a close eye on their prisoners they were visibly relaxed, quietly talking with each other.  
A man in a SS-uniform had made his way to the German commander and after a short greeting and, to Francis' distaste, the Nazi salute, they all were on their way again, now lead by the local Nazi official.  
While heading to their destination some children got out of the houses, running along the trek or watching them with wide eyes. Their mothers hasty stomped after them, shoving them back inside, but not without a curious glance at the racket themselves.  
On the right-hand side, Francis saw the city starting to mount a hill on top of which a small castle sat, overlooking them all. A river ran in a semicircle around the foot of the hill and the soldiers followed it. The rails disappeared after the station into the mountain and re-emerged on the other side.  
When they reached the rails again, the Germans lead them to an old, three-storied house at the meadow next to the river. Francis glanced at the hill to check that the castle still looked down on them, however it showed them its other side now.

As it turned out, this old house would be their new prisoner-of-war camp, in this small city in the middle of nowhere in the Black Forest. The French were brought here to work in various jobs around the town while their overseers were happy to get a rather easy task of watching them instead of being sent off to the war – the German soldiers would be able to get a decent amount of beer, sleep and games, instead of the stresses and strains of the battles.  
In the next days the Germans from the town came around, receiving one or more POWs to work for them. Some of them started to work at a carpenter's shop nearby and others were told to help out on the farms or in the woods. Each morning the Germans would come to take their assigned POWs with them and after a long day of work would return them in the evening to the camp were the soldiers awaited them. It was inculcated that the French were not allowed to walk around unsupervised, and they were at the mercy of the German civilians for most of the day.  
Francis had been told to work with four of his comrades at the carpenter's factory and after a week they started to fall into a routine, somehow relaxing with the dull and hard work. When they did their job to satisfaction, the carpenter and his workers would smile at them and issue rare praises.

One evening after the first week a sharp and loud female voice resounded through the house. A women argued, obviously angry with the German soldiers. Bewildered, Francis and two of his fellow Frenchmen shared a look. You must be either really brave or totally mad to talk to the German soldiers in such a manner.  
After a couple more minutes, they heard the sharp sound of boots and a second heavy pair of feet approaching their door. It was pushed open and the German commander stepped into the room. Close on his heels was a chubby woman. She threw a stern glance at them, red spots on her neck showing that she was quite angry. Eventually, her eyes landed on the commander again, still gloomy. The German officer pretended to ignore her ire.  
“I take either of them”, she announced with her loud voice.  
“Bonnefoy, can you cook?”, the commander addressed Francis, not even looking at him.  
The French pondered a second on what answer might be better, but since he had no idea at all, he hastily exhaled a quick “ _Oui_ ”, and after a second thought he added “a little bit”, just to be sure.  
“That's enough for me”, the woman declared, looking him over. “I'm Mrs Berger. I'm the owner of the tavern up in the city. Tomorrow Martha will come to fetch you”, she explained shortly, then she nodded at the commander and hissed a rather sharp “thank you” in his direction before turning in her heels and stomping outside.  
Francis asked himself whether this turn of events would be for the better or worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raus = out  
> Oui = Yes
> 
> AN:  
> The Germans speak German to each other and all and Francis thinks in French but speaks some broken German with them. You have to imagine this a bit, otherwise this story would be way too complex only because of the language barriers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited due to formatting. I fought with HTML and I guess I won? (Same goes for the following chapters. Rich Text did betray me).

Apparently the owner of the towns tavern had stormed angrily into the prisoner-of-war-camp and had chosen him, Francis, to work in her tavern, he recalled the next morning.  
To be honest, it was neither his choice nor any of his problems where he had to work or who was his supervisor. Though, working in a tavern sounded way more fun to him. Getting hold of their wine storage was probably not going to happen, and shoving drunk Germans out of a bar didn't sound like an easy job, but at least there would be food, wine and singing. Well, rather some food – the Germans had started rationing their food due to the war – beer and bad German singing, yet that still seemed fine to him.

It was eight o'clock when he made his way downstairs, ready to start his first day with his new task. Two of the German soldiers sat next to the door, drinking watery coffee and smoked. That was a quite common sight for Francis by now, but surprising was the little girl that stood with them, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the smoke, causing the German soldiers to laugh. When Francis approached them curiously, they looked up, noticing him.  
“Hey, Bonnefoy!”, one of the soldiers exclaimed, motioning him to come closer. “That's Martha Berger. She came to fetch you”.  
Francis looked at her surprised and was greeted with a stern glare – as stern as an approximately ten year old girl with two braids could muster.  
“Hello”, the French greeted softly. He refrained from adding “little one” to it as he subconsciously did, suspecting that it would not make a good first impression.  
“Good morning, Mr. Bonnefoy”, she returned very formal, her high childlike voice pronouncing his surname slightly wrong.  
Then she turned and made her way out of the house.  
Francis hastily followed her, his eyes hefted to the blond braids bouncing on the girl's shoulders. They made their way towards the hill, leaving the camp and river behind them. A very small and steep street twisted itself up to the ridge, were most part of the city was penned up. They followed it past some askew houses that clung into the rock of the hill as if they surely were about to fall down to the river bed.  
Even though the girl had tried to act stern and grown-up, she quickly discarded her attempts and started to chatter lightly in her small, high voice. Francis could not follow everything she said since most of it seemed random and his German was not yet well enough to understand the fast and puzzling yack. Once in a while, she would point at a building, explaining something or greet a German woman, quickly introducing them and after they departed would start to gossip eagerly. Francis tried his best to remember most names and listened bewildered to who had been a widow or what one had supposedly said or done at the marked last week.  
To his surprise no one questioned him being there. They shoot him interested glances and smiled at Martha but did not think twice about him following a kid. He pondered over this while they reached the top of the crest.

Martha pointed down the street to their right side. “There is the old castle. It's a sanatorium now, you know. There's lots of good air in the Black Forest”, she smiled at him, then turned to their left. “This way. We're almost there”.  
Francis remembered the castle from his first day, sitting at top of the ridge, overlooking the town that had been constructed from the river up to the hill, but he was still concerned about an entire different topic.  
“Why do you escort me?”, he asked the girl bewildered. After all he was a grown man, a French soldier, that was held prison by his enemies in their country. He had shot a couple of German soldiers and was easily able to overpower the small girl.  
Martha looked at him puzzled. “Because you are not allowed to walk around unsupervised”, she said scolding him as if he had forgotten his instructions. The words “you idiot” clearly hung in the air, even though they were not said.  
“I mean, you know… I could… run away”, he asked carefully and quietly so that others would not overhear him.  
The girl looked at him, her brows furrowed with thoughts. Finally she smiled. “Why would you? We won, France is our ally!”, she exclaimed in her childish tone. Francis did not try to clarify that “ally” was quite an exaggeration to describe a defeated and suppressed country.  
“You're not going to desert, are you? That's cowardice”, she continued, but had lowered her voice. He doubted that fleeing from German captivity was desertion, but agreed that it probably was a bad idea since he was somewhere in Germany, in the middle of the Black Forest, and had no chance to get home to his occupied country. And getting caught running away would not be met with kindness by the German soldiers who certainly would find him. So he shook his head.  
“Anyway, I can scream really loud!”, Martha threatened jokingly, smiling at him and France didn't doubt that at all. With that, she dismissed the topic, turned and bounced happily in her childish bliss along the street.

After a couple of minutes, they reached the tavern. “ _Zum Hirschen_ ” was printed in red letters above the door.  
“That's it!”, Martha exclaimed jolly. She was obviously quite proud that her family owned the towns tavern and indeed, it was an old, yet beautiful building.  
She lead her companion into the lounge, which was still empty due to the early hour. The tables were pushed to one side of the room and the chairs were all scattered around except for the free space in the middle. Apparently there had been a party and dancing last night.  
Called by the sound of the door, a young woman appeared behind the bar. She wore a green dress and a white apron, as well as a scarf on her long, brown hair. Upon seeing them, she put a towel aside and approached them.  
“Hello, I'm Elizabeta. Lis is fine”, she announced, shaking Francis' hand.  
“Francis Bonnefoy”, he answered and after surpassing his surprise, he added with his usual, chivalrous tone: “I didn't know there were beautiful German ladies working in taverns!”.  
Lis smiled at him, then raised an eyebrow. “Do not think that you can get any advantages from being nice to me. I work in a tavern, don't you think I get compliments and insinuating remarks every evening?”, she said, yet there was a laugh in her voice.  
“Besides, I am partly Hungarian and that's where the pretty genes come from”, she added with a wink.  
She turned towards the tables, monitoring him to follow her, while Martha excused herself, picking up a bag and left the tavern with a short “Bye, Mr. Bonnefoy and aunt Lis!”. The woman turned to shout a “I'm not your aunt!”, behind the leaving girl, but was not heard.  
“I'm not that old”, she muttered to Francis. Then she refocused on the task at hand, instructing him to rearrange the tables and chairs so the guests later were able to get seated.

“He's already here?”, a loud female voice was heard from upstairs as they pushed the tables around.  
“Yes, Mrs. Berger!”, Lis replied, raising her voice.  
“You keep an eye on him and keep him busy”, Mrs. Berger instructed her while making her way through the house.  
“I will!” Lis shouted back. When no answer came, she turned back to Francis, smiling at him. “Mrs. Berger is upstairs arranging the rooms for the guests who will stay over night and later she'll prepare the meals. The kitchen is her territory, so don't interfere with her there. It's the dragon's lair and you don't want to get burned”, Lis said smiling fondly. Since Francis had heard Mrs. Berger arguing with the German soldiers, he could vividly picture the trouble one might get into.  
“That means that I am in charge of you mostly, but don't think I let you off the hook easily. I have a lot to do so you will be quite busy, too”.  
It turned out that the owner of the tavern, Mr. Berger, was killed in the war a year ago and his wife needed someone to help her with the tavern. Lis had started to increase her work in and around the house, helping as good as she could, but when the French prisoners arrived, they were glad to get more support. With Mrs. Berger in the kitchen and Lis as the waiter and both working with the papers and bills, Francis was told to jump in where ever he could. Right now with the tables, later with sweeping the floor or carrying the bottles and food around.

In the evening everything was prepared for the guests and the tavern started to fill with people. Martha, the daughter of Mrs. Berger, came back from school and after a short meal and a lot of chattering, went out again to play with her friends.  
The Germans were served by Lis mostly, but Francis did his best to help. He was sometimes greeted by the guests but mostly ignored. The ones visiting the town might not think anything about the blond and blue eyed man working in the tavern, while the locals would already heard the gossip about the French POWs.  
In fact, he had already met some of them. A young apprentice at the carpenters waved at him.  
“So the dragon fetched you away!”, the German whined sympathetically. “Call for help if she pesters you”, he winked and the others around him laughed. Francis smiled politely and made his way to the counter where some of the ordered meals had arrived.

It got quite busy when more and more guests appeared but when the night came and everyone was served, Francis got some time to himself. He sat down next to Lis, who had placed herself at a small table near to the bar and the door which lead to the kitchen and surveyed the room. Everyone was either eating, drinking or talking, so the two had to wait for someone to call them. Francis shot a glance at the woman, then tried to start a conversation.  
“I never caught your surname?”, he asked, seriously interested.  
“It is Héderváry”, Lis answered quietly. “It's Hungarian, so don't trumped it around everywhere”, she instructed him, not meeting his eyes.  
“They are part of the axis, aren't they?”, Francis wondered.  
“Yes. And I never met my Hungarian father but grew up here in Germany with my mother. Still no need to remind everyone about this, OK?”. She sounded quite strict.  
“I definitely have no problem to call a pretty girl by her beautiful first name!”, Francis beamed a smile at her, trying to lighten the mood. It worked: she rolled her eyes, but smiled back sightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zum Hirschen = It roughly translates to “To the stag” with “Zum” as a common start for German inns and taverns, usually followed by animals like bears or eagles, or by other inanimate things.
> 
> AN:  
> I know you miss Gilbert. He's finally turning up in the next chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait - seeing the Kudos I feel slightly guilty. Feel free to point out any mistakes, I am happy to learn.

Another week had passed and Francis started to feel comfortable with his job. Every morning little Martha would fetch him at the camp and escort him to the tavern before going to school. Lis usually was already there, scheduling his tasks. Most of the time he had to carry stuff around like furniture or food, sometimes he was told to weep the floor or tried to repair things while Lis coordinated the meals, sleeping reservations or finances. At noon all four of them, Mrs. Berger, Martha, Lis and Francis, would eat lunch together. It was not much but Mrs. Berger always made sure that everyone got something. In the evening, when the tavern got busy with people, Francis would help Lis serving the guests or made himself useful at the bar. Due to the war and the rations the tavern got quiet relatively early into the night and with the last guest he was dismissed and brought back down the hill to the camp by Martha.  
They started to fall into a rhythm and with most people already knowing him, he didn't expect anything new to happen anytime soon, when one evening, a new and remarkable guest appeared.

Francis looked up from the bar when he heard the door moving. A man had entered the tavern and with purposeful strides came up to the bar, placing himself in front of the French. Francis was intrigued by his appearance: His hair was white and his skin very pale. Only his eyes were granted with colour. These bright red eyes met his and darkened.  
“Who the hell are you?”, the albino asked sharply.  
“I'm the new bartender”, Francis answered, giving an apologetic smile.  
“I liked the old one better”, was the prompt reply.

Before Francis could return something, a loud shriek was heard from behind. Lis had re-emerged from the kitchen and noticed the young man at the bar.  
“Gilbert!”, she squeaked, running around and hugging the albino tightly. “You are alive!”.  
“Better be”, the albino mumbled, somewhat startled by the enthusiastic greeting. He started to pat Lis' back awkwardly.  
Finally, she let him go, only to beam a smile at him. “You're on home leave, aren't you?”, she asked, then narrowed her eyes as she searched his body for injuries, the other possible explanation for him being home.  
“Yeah, rest and recuperation”, the albino nodded. “Three weeks, and I don't intend to leave this tavern till day zero”, he promised Lis with a smirk on his face.  
She turned to Francis, gesturing toward him. “Our new staff. Francis Bonnefoy”, she introduced him.

The albino looked at him silently.  
“You're French”, he stated with no hint of emotion in his voice, his expression unreadable.  
“Guilty”, Francis answered lightly and waited for a reaction.  
The other man only shrugged. “At least you are done with fighting”, he asserted. “Gilbert Beilschmidt, by the way. Actually Lieutenant. But since we are here – “, he gestured around, demonstration that ranks and medals were not that important being home – “Gilbert is OK”.  
Francis met the red eyes and nodded.  
“And I like to have a beer right now. I've been here for at least five minutes and still have non. That is definitely a bad start”, Gilbert exclaimed mockingly.  
Lis laughed and started to make her way to the bar but Francis waved her aside.  
“I'll get one. You can chat with him”, he said and was rewarded with a grateful smile.

“You got promoted”, Lis said, as Francis poured a beer for Gilbert.  
The albino only shrugged.  
“That's an honour, isn't it?”, she asked bewildered.  
“Nah, not if you're promoted because there was no one better”, Gilbert dismissed it with a wave.  
“But that does mean you're the best!”, Lis insisted.  
“It only means we're out of staff at the eastern front”, Gilbert countered seriously. “But still thanks for calling me awesome”, he continued, smiling at her.  
“I definitely did not”, Lis protested immediately.  
Francis handed the beer to Gilbert who thanked him and greedily started to gulp the drink down.

Francis and Lis served the other guests during the evening, but now and then Lis would sit beside the albino, chatting, while Francis made sure that Gilbert did not run out of drinks. Sometimes people greeted the German, obviously happy to see the young man home and he would exchange a couple of words with them.

When the last guest was leaving, Gilbert rose from his spot at the bar, waved at Lis and made his way outside. Francis gathered his coat and Lis gave him a farewell before she made her way up the stairs. As soon the old stairs made a sound, Francis heard a door opened and hasty, little steps hushed over the corridor and down the stairs. Martha appeared at the lounge, dressed in a nightgown and a coat, wearing soft boots. She greeted him with a childish smile and together they made their way down the hill to the prisoners-of-war-camp.

“What happened today?”, the girl asked him, keen to hear gossip.  
“Not much”, Francis shrugged. “Lis seemed quite happy, though. A friend of her came to visit. Gilbert”, he said, not sure whether Martha would know the albino. From her eager nodding he guessed that the man was indeed known.  
“Yes, they are childhood friends. They might start to banter within the next week and probably fight, but it is nice for him to come around”, she explained wisely.  
“So I have to protect the lady?”, Francis asked lightly.  
“No, rather him”, Martha replied chuckling.

As promised Gilbert turned up at the tavern the next evening. He was promptly handed a beer by Francis as he sat down at the bar. Since Lis was occupied with serving, the albino started to talk to Francis, who didn't mind. He was somehow intrigued by the man with the unusual appearance.  
“Where are you from?”, Gilbert asked and took a sip from his beer.  
“Beautiful Paris”, France answered smiling sadly when pictures of his home town flooded his mind. “You're from here?”, he said, returning from his memories.  
Gilbert nodded. “Rest and recuperation is to come home to the family. Except that my father is dead for years now and my little brother got eighteen this year and was sent south with the troops. So it's just me and my mother”, he sighed.  
“That's nice, too”, Francis said encouraging. He eyed up the albino for a second and then added “And you're coming home to your… _Freundin_ ”. He struggled with the German word since it meant both, friend and girlfriend at the same time. With a possessive pronoun and in the context of family, the meaning usually was clear and Gilbert immediately caught it. “Me and Lis?”, the German asked bewildered and laughed awkwardly. “Nah, she's with that bastard Roderich”, he exclaimed.  
“Stop insulting your friend!”, Lis scolded him, turning up at his side just then.  
“He's not my friend, he is my nemesis!”, Gilbert protested.  
Lis rolled her eyes at him. “Stop being childish”, she demanded instead, ruffling his hair.  
Gilbert only glared.

“I'm actually Prussian”, Gilbert stated.  
It was another evening and of course the albino had showed up at the tavern, drinking his third beer by now. Somehow they had started to come up with the topic where they wanted to go after the war and while Francis explained his wish to return home to Paris, Gilbert had claimed to move to the north-east of Germany, since he was 'actually Prussian'. Francis looked at the man puzzled.  
“I though you are from here?”, he asked.  
“Yeah, I am. But my mother is Prussian so I will go there as soon as I can”, Gilbert explained to him.  
“Bullshit!”, Lis kindly disagreed. “You're not Prussian. Everyone is German, after all”, she laughed friendly at Gilbert who huffed slightly at being laughed at.  
“Coming from the one stating to be Hungarian half of the time”, he retorted.  
“That's completely different!”, Lis objected promptly. “You know, Roderich and Ludwig would scold you if they were here”, she stated.  
But Gilbert shook his head. “The first is Austrian, after all –”  
“No he's not! Austria was incorporated to Germany”, she interrupted him.  
“– and when my brother likes to stay here in the Black Forest, where nothing ever happens, he is free to do so”, Gilbert finished. “If he comes back alive, that is”, he added seriously, his eyes darkened.  
“When”, Lis corrected him softly, patting his hand.  
Gilbert looked up to meet Francis' eyes. The French did not dare to intervene, but from the look both men shared it was clear that they understood each other. Knowing the battlefields, Francis considered himself lucky to be captured alive and send here to the middle of nowhere. At least he was alive and treated quite well. He knew it was only because he was considered Arian by the Germans, like most soldiers of the western allies were, and therefore mostly treated according to the Geneva Conventions, in contrast to the Russians or other Slavs being captured at the eastern front. Coming home safe from the front was not that easy and started to grow considerably harder with each passing year.

He would not lie to Gilbert to raise false hope but he somehow had the urge to cheer him up. So he got three small glasses, poured strong liquor into them and slipped them over the bar.  
“A schnapps on the house”, he announced and Lis rolled her eyes.  
“Yeah, they're on me. But drink them alone”, she agreed and raised from her place next to Gilbert, disappearing to look after the other guests.  
“Thanks Lis! I'll take your share”, Gilbert shouted after her before returning his red eyes towards the French. Francis thought he could spot gratitude in them as the German raised his glass.  
“ _Prost_!”, the albino said, gulping the liquor down.  
“ _Santé_!”, Francis mumbled, joining him.  
Of course Gilbert snatched the third glass, as well.

“What's this with you and your nemesis?”, Francis asked one evening. He had observed Gilbert and Lis for a couple of nights by now and their playful banter always ended with Gilbert being sulky when she had mentioned Roderich.  
“What's supposed to be with him?”, Gilbert replied and shrugged.  
The thing was that Lis claimed them to be friends while the German himself denied this vehemently. Francis explained his observation and Gilbert only huffed.  
“Are you mad because he got your girl?”, Francis asked to provoke the German. It worked to his amusement.  
“She's not my girl!”, Gilbert exclaimed indignantly. “Just because you'll try to strip everyone mentally doesn't mean I do”, he fired back.  
Francis raised an eyebrow to this statement. He did not have a problem with this reputation but wondered where he got it from – after all there were no occasions here in this city.  
“Besides, when we were little, I thought that she was a boy”, Gilbert explained. “But don't tell her that I told you”, he whispered. “She can be scary”.  
“Then he got your boy”, Francis did not let go. He still wanted to know why Gilbert called the Austrian a nemesis and the German was fast with distractions when you'll let him.  
Eventually, Gilbert resigned to his destiny and the relentless French. He let out a deep sigh into his beer glass.  
“Nah, they are right for each other”, he mumbled. “They're both way more girlish than I first thought”, he jokingly added with a smirk.  
“He's just everything that I'm not”, he continued, suddenly stern.  
Francis looked at him questioning.  
“He's a musician and well-versed with being a noble. I bet you'll be able to talk in French with him while I'm just a bumpkin, good for nothing except for drinking and fighting. What is basically what I'm doing right now. Seems like I'm made for war, but he definitely isn't”, Gilbert's voice trailed off.  
“You think he's not doing good in the war?”, Francis asked softly. It seemed to him that Gilbert was worried about the Austrian.  
“Yeah, whatever. Maybe I do miss arguing with him”, the German shrugged again and took a big sip from his beer. He would not admit more than this. And he didn't have to. Francis could relate to miss a friend with whom you might not share much for outsiders except for your banters.

“I think I have this kind of friend, too”, Francis said to his own surprise. Gilbert looked at him interested, so somehow he continued. “I've met a British guy at the front, just a couple of months before I –“, he moved his hand around, being at loss for words, but indicating that he meant his capture and imprisonment by the Germans “– and we never did anything except of quarrelling”. Francis stopped to gather his thoughts and recall the words in German. In the end he decided for the short and straight forward version.  
“Anyway, I do miss him and hope he's all right. Even if I would never admit this to him and if you'll tell him, I would deny everything”, Francis said, smiling softly at Gilbert.  
The German raised his glass.  
“To our nemesis': Your Tommy and my Austrian”, he toasted.  
Francis nodded, realising the nickname for British soldiers being Tommy, despite of the fact that his particular Englishman was called Arthur. To be fair, they did call the Germans 'Fritz' on the other side of the battlefields.

Some nights and a couple of drinks on Gilbert's behalf later, the German soldier and the waitress were talking quite excited. In fact, they've been talking for most of the evening – which would be fine to Francis if there wouldn't be so many guests at the tavern. He did his best to serve them, but after observing the two friends still chattering at the bar, he made his way up to them.  
„You keep her from working with your flirtatious banter“, he huffed at the German.  
Gilbert threw his head back, laughing, while Lis muttered something like “As if” and hastily pretended to be very busy at the bar, pushing glasses and bottles around.  
“Jealous much?”, Gilbert asked obviously very amused, his cheeks and nose slightly red from the alcohol. Francis only deemed him with a glare.  
“Ow, you don't have to be with your blond hair and pretty eyes”, Gilbert stated, grinning wide. Francis was surprised for a second and didn't answer, then he turned abruptly and made his way back to the guests. He was definitely not used to be called pretty by a man and he had clearly more important things to do than to quarrel with the tipsy albino.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freundin = female friend or girlfriend  
> Prost = Santé = Cheers
> 
> AN:  
> I didn't tag Austria/Hungary here because it's just a brief reference and not really important for the story. And since they are canon (at least their marriage is) and I have a soft spot for canonical pairings, I put it in here. Besides, I had to get her out of reach for both, Francis and Gilbert, since the first is happy to flirt with any gender (according to the manga) and the latter does like his childhood friend a lot.
> 
> And a disclaimer: Do not drink as much as Gilbert does in this story and please don't draw off the attention of the bartender all the time. They have things to do like working. And don't think that you only can flirt drunk as Gilbert is doing here and will be doing (successfully) in the next chapter. Most of you will be way nicer sober, believe me.


	4. Chapter 4

Lis and Gilbert were chatting again. Since the tavern was not really busy this night, Francis didn't interrupt them – at least, he tried to convince himself that this was the reason and not Gilbert's blunt answer the last time he tried.  
Handling the bottles at the bar, Francis picked up some snatches of their conversation.  
“Yes, the celebrations would be fun”, Lis said and smiled brightly.  
Gilbert agreed. “Just imagine: I would go to my comrades at the front like 'Hey boys, sorry that you are cold and hungry, but I have to go home partying!'”, he described vividly. “Celebrations are an awesome excuse from battles”.  
“We're going to have celebrations?”, Francis could not stop himself from asking.  
"There would be, if there was no war”, Lis explained to him. “The shepherds would celebrate themselves and the people usually join them”.  
“ _Mon dieu_! Celebrations for the shepherds! Beautiful Paris celebrates glorious revolutions, kings, victories or music, art and science”, Francis exclaimed and left the words 'and you only celebrate shepherds' unsaid hanging in the air. He didn't mean any harm by it, but he was definitely used to the life of the big capital that used to bustle at day- and night-time alike and practically exploded into colours and joy during festivals. That this small town in the rural landscape, that had only one tavern at all, would think that a meeting of shepherds would be worth to be called a celebration, was strange news to him.  
“We do have music and games, food and dancing at this day”, Lis claimed.  
“And drinking!”, Gilbert interjected, smirking.  
“That's basically what happens here in the tavern every night”, Francis hinted cautiously.  
“Exactly!”, Gilbert chirped. “Only bigger and the whole day. Isn't that awesome? Don't dare to say you don't like our evenings together”, the albino said and winked suggestively before breaking into a big smile.

Francis returned the smile and didn't reply.

“Maybe he doesn't like our rural ways because he would loose”, Lis stated, looking expectantly at Gilbert.  
“Definitely!”, Gilbert immediately joined her train of thoughts.  
“What am I supposed to loose?”, Francis asked, not being included in their talk and caught off guard by their agreement.  
“Like I said, at the celebrations there are games and prices. The most important one is the race of the shepherds where the best is crowned king. When Gil and I were little, we used to practice the run and raced against each other”, Lis elaborated.  
“And since we could not officially participate – not being shepherds ourselves –“ Gilbert interjected “– we made our own paper crown”. He smiled fondly at Lis.  
“Yeah, right. Remember that for the first years you had to crown me the winner?”, Lis recalled.  
Gilbert's answer came fast. “Doesn't matter! Now I'm faster”.  
“That's obviously a body disadvantage!”, Lis commented annoyed.  
Gilbert only shrugged. 'Not his fault' the gesture seemed to mean.  
“Anyway, Francis, you wouldn't win. That's why you don't like our celebration”, Gilbert said, addressing the French.  
“Why would you think so?”, Francis asked, thinking of himself as a decent runner.  
“First, you don't have practice, coming from your fancy capital and second, the race is bare feet and that's only for bumpkins”, Gilbert joked.  
“That sounds like a challenge”, Francis answered.  
“Fortunately for you both, we'll never know who's faster. The celebrations are not held due to the war anyway”, Lis said softly. “Everyone is supposed to be working”.  
Gilbert mumbled something along the lines of 'what a bad exchange' and Francis had to agree with him silently that going to war or working in the tavern was indeed a bad exchange to watching shepherds running barefoot over a field. Who in their right mind would choose what was reality to them right now.

The next day, Gilbert stormed right in as the four of them – Mrs. Berger, Martha, Lis and Francis – finished their dinner. The albino was in a merry mood and beamed a smile at them.  
“I want to borrow your POW”, he exclaimed, his eyes set on Mrs. Berger. “Please, Ma'am”, he hurriedly added to make his request more polite.  
The woman looked at him puzzled. “Why, Beilschmidt?”, she asked.  
“The weather is nice today, I thought I could show him some parts of the city”, Gilbert admitted lightly.  
Mrs. Berger's brows furrowed. “I'm not giving him free time”, she proclaimed sternly.  
“But Mrs. Berger”, Gilbert almost whined. “You wont miss him. It's not like he's working in the kitchen or else”.  
Mrs. Berger gave him a disproving look but sighed finally. “Fine. He is working with Elizabeta, so she can decide whether she needs him or not”, Mrs. Berger proposed and gathered the bowls and dishes.  
Gilbert set his eyes expectantly on Lis and a short silence followed. When Lis made no sign to agree, he tried a sweet “Please, Lis?”.  
“Hell no, Gil!”, came the prompt answer. “I'm not working double just because you are bored!”.  
An exaggerated pained expression settled on Gilbert's face. “Please, Lis. It doesn't have to be the whole day – I bring him back in the evening, before everything gets really busy. Come on, he's working here for weeks without a day off, you can't deny him a couple of hours!”, he bargained.  
Lis looked surprised and bad conscious visibly moved in her eyes. They darted at Francis for a second, then she nodded. “See you two in the evening”, she said softly, getting up from the table as well.  
“Thank you, Lis! I owe you”, Gilbert chirped happily. He gesticulate Francis to follow him. The French did as he was shown, still surprised and curious.

“Can't I have a say in this?”, he questioned Gilbert as they made their way to the door.  
“I just got you some free time, so be grateful and thank the awesome me”, Gilbert said with a smirk.  
“You actually just said that I am useless”, Francis mocked.  
“Nah, that was just an exaggeration to get you out of her grip”, Gilbert replied and winked.

He lead the French down the hill. First Francis thought he would show him the old castle, but then they descended the familiar narrow and steep street.  
“We're not going back to the camp, are we?”, Francis asked suspicious when he spotted the familiar building on the foot of the hill, next to the river. He was not fond of spending his free time anywhere near the camp.  
Gilbert chuckled. “Only if that's your definition of fun”, the German answered mysteriously.

Soon enough, instead of following the road to the camp, they turned to cross the river. The warm sun sparkled on the water and Gilbert started to hum softly. Francis eyed him without being noticed. The self-declared Prussian seemed to be in a really good mood and it did suit him.  
“That's the old monastery”, Gilbert explained as they walked towards the old ruins. They started to chat about this and that, only interrupted by some facts about their surroundings that Gilbert decided to throw in. At times, Gilbert would point out a bird that hopped around or crossed them flying, calling them by their German names. _Bachstelze_ , _Spatz_ , _Buchfink_ , _Milan_.  
“That's a _Milan_ in French, too”, Francis interjected. He smiled up to the bird of prey that made its majestic rounds over their heads, its forked tail clearly visible against the blue sky.  
“I didn't think that you would be interested in this”, Francis mused aloud. When Gilbert threw a bewildered look at him, he elaborated. “Knowing about birds and all...”. He met Gilbert's red eyes who raised an eyebrow.  
“Did you think all I would ever do is drinking beer?”, the albino asked disbelievingly.  
“Well...”, Francis started, but then only shrugged. After all they had met every evening in the tavern for more than a week by now and he had never seen Gilbert do anything except of drinking, smirking and annoying Lis.  
Gilbert snorted. “Glad to surprise you”, he said sarcastically.

They followed the river downstream away from the camp and the old monastery and just when Francis wanted to ask why Gilbert liked birds that much, the other started to smile bright, a childish expression in his eyes.  
“That's the field the shepherds use for their race!”, Gilbert exclaimed. He threw a questioning look at Francis. The French didn't need an invitation and started to step out of his shoes.  
“The first to reach the other side of the field wins”, Gilbert explained, putting his boots and socks neatly down at the side of the road. Barefoot they positioned themselves next to each other.

“Three, two, one, GO!”

They sprinted across the field and neither could gain any advantages. They approached the end of the field fast when Gilbert suddenly glanced at his opponent, a wicked smirk appearing on his face. He reached out to Francis, shoving his shoulder. The French stumbled upon loosing his balance and started to fall. But not surrendering to his fate, Francis caught Gilbert's feet, sending him to the ground as well. Hitting the field Francis felt the air being pressed out of his lungs. But he promptly picked himself up, crawling to where Gilbert laid in the grass. Still slightly groggy himself, Francis straddled the German beneath him, glaring down at him.  
Gilbert twisted and groaned.  
“I think I hit my head on a stone”, he whined.  
Francis scanned his white hair for a second. “I see no blood. You're fine”, he announced sternly. Gilbert answered with another groan.  
“Stop trying to distract me from the fact that you just tried to cheat!”, Francis chided him. Gilbert stopped fidgeting and looked up to Francis.  
“It is not fighting dirty if you win”, he said, a wide smirk appearing on his face.  
Francis leaned forward. “That's not how it works”, the French insisted.  
For a second the German looked up to him with an unreadable expression in his eyes, then the smirk widened as his eyes lightened with an idea. Suddenly, he popped himself up to his elbows, lifting his head and upper body towards Francis. Their faces were mere centimetres away from each other. Francis could feel Gilbert's soft pants on his face and his eyes darted to Gilbert's lips which were astonishing red and slightly parted. Goosebumps appeared on Francis' arm and he felt his heartbeat picking up the pace, blood roaring in his ears. Not a second passed and Francis pulled back, backing away to sit on the grass next to Gilbert, averting his gaze and suppressing a blush.  
Nonchalantly Gilbert sat up completely, keeping his red eyes glued on Francis.  
“You know, that sounds like something a looser would claim”, the self-proclaimed Prussian said slowly, leaning towards Francis. Abruptly, he jumped up and started to run again.  
Francis cursed in French and followed him, resuming their race. But he had no chance. Gilbert reached the end of the field first, thrusting his fist in the air.  
“Victory!”, he exclaimed cheering. Francis tried to give him a stern look, but failed as he sensed Gilbert's childish happiness. Instead, a fond smile appeared in Francis' face.

They made their way back over the field, slightly breathless, and collected their shoes before they climbed up the hill to the tavern. It was early evening when they reached the tavern. There were no guests yet and Francis hurried up to make himself useful while Gilbert strode to his usual seat at the bar.  
“I'm not getting you a drink this early”, Francis told him while scanning the inventory of the bar.  
“Nah, water is fine”, Gilbert replied.  
“You'll get nothing else till the bar opens”, Francis stated but passed him a glass of water nonetheless.

Lis turned up as well, and she smiled happily at them upon noticing that they were back in time. She and Francis both tinkered around in the tavern while the first guests appeared. After serving them, Francis noticed that Gilbert was unusually quiet at his spot, considering the fact that he had noting but water to drink and the fact, that the tavern was officially open by now. Upon approaching him, Francis saw him writing in a small book, not registering his surroundings.  
“What are you writing? A diary?”, Francis asked curiously.  
“Yeah”, Gilbert mumbled, his eyes fixated on the pages. His concentration was not diverted by the approaching French who took his time to observe the German. Francis noticed the shining white hair that fell dishevelled into Gilbert's face and for the first time he found himself asking how it might feel like when he would touch it. Somehow, he had never registered the light eyelashes before, surrounding the crimson eyes. Gilbert's lips were slightly pursed with concentration.  
He's quite pretty, isn't he? The thought occurred to Francis suddenly.  
The German was absorbed with his work and had put his right hand in front of the diary to cover it from curious glances while he continued to scribble down his thoughts. Francis had to admit he liked the way Gilbert had some childish quirks. It made him somewhat adorable. The self-proclaimed Prussian would probably claim that it made him awesome, but Francis would rather opt for cute.

“I have to record my victory today”, Gilbert suddenly stated, shot a short glance up to Francis, smirked and dedicated his attention back to his diary.  
Francis mentally corrected the part with 'being cute' into 'being a jerk'.  
Before he could utter this aloud, his mind noticed something else: Gilbert was writing with the 'wrong' hand. He was left-handed.  
“Shouldn't you write with your right?”, Francis asked quietly. He had refrained from stating the obvious by asking the unnecessary question whether Gilbert was left-handed upon seeing him writing with his left. Instead, he recalled Martha complaining once at lunch about a child in her class which had a terrible handwriting due to the fact that they had to write with their right hand even though they were left-handed.  
Gilbert looked up and his red eyes hardened.  
“Yes, but I want to be able to read my diary one day and honestly, I don't care. At the army I'm writing with the other hand but in my free time I can do whatever I want”, the German explained harshly, a defiant tone in his voice. Francis did not answer him. His statement was not meant to be an accusation, but simply a surprised observation. Gilbert seemed to sense this, since he got a softer look in his face.  
“The advantage is that at least I can write letters to everyone if I'm shot in either hand”, he continued, less serious and smiling at Francis.  
The French smiled back slightly, trying not to worry about the dark humour of the soldier.

It was another evening and the tavern hosted its last few guests. Mrs. Berger had already closed the kitchen, Martha was upstairs in her room, probably asleep, and Lis just left as well, leaving Gilbert in the responsibility to supervise the French. What he did enthusiastic with keeping him busy at the bar. The German had ordered another beer for himself and one for Francis, since drinking alone was less fun, he claimed loudly. Francis was not a big fan of this choice of drink, but it was free and did not taste that bad, after all. They had chatted the whole evening and now silence had fallen over them.

Francis thought of initiating a cheerful topic but decided against it. He would be able to ask about Gilbert's love for birds which he discovered yesterday at any other occasion. Now Gilbert was slightly tipsy and with a bit of bad conscience, Francis used this advantage to possibly get honest answers. So he took a deep breath.  
“What do you fear most?”, he asked the albino.  
Gilbert looked up from his beer.  
“Seriously?”, he groaned. “That's the thing you ask people when they pay for a round?”  
“No, usually not. But you are special”, Francis answered, smiling softly at the self-proclaimed Prussian to encourage him.  
“As if”, Gilbert said, dismissing the thought. He remained silent and Francis almost thought that his question would be ignored. Then, Gilbert answered.  
“I fear that I will not get back to my company”, he confessed quietly. Francis looked up to see that the German focussed on his hands that clung to the glass. “They are in Brjansk, Russia. At least they were when I left. But you never know whether they will have moved when you come back from rest and recuperation. If they moved, you are lucky to find your way to them and when you don't, they will throw you into a new company, composed by soldiers coming back from home or the hospital and they will send it wherever they need someone to jump in. Meaning it gets risky and dangerous”. Gilbert seemed to consider to continue but then only shrugged, looking up to meet Francis' eyes.  
The French opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by Gilbert.  
“I bet your biggest fear is that the Germans are winning the war”, he ejected bitterly. Francis considered the thought for a moment. Truth to be told, he did not like the possibility that Nazi-Germany would continue to control France, let alone half of the world. But it was not what he feared most.  
“I'm terrified that one day, when the war is over –” a couple of days ago they had silently agreed to use 'when' rather than 'if' while talking about the end of the war. It did went on for seemingly an eternity, but there was no way it would not end, somehow, eventually. “– I will not recognize my home, my country, beautiful Paris”, Francis said husky.  
Gilbert seemed to ponder on it and finally nodded. “Seems legit”, he admitted quietly rather to himself than to Francis.  
“Yeah, there's not much I can do about it, is it?”, the French asked severe.  
Gilbert put his hands down at the table with a soft thump. “Well, if it is going to be the case, you'll have to rebuilt it”, he announced.  
“It's not that simple!”, Francis protested to the sheer optimism of the tipsy man in front of him.  
“I didn't said it was easy! Just that you have to make it your home again. And I'm sure you'll manage”, Gilbert clarified. Their eyes met and Gilbert's red were filled with determination that made Francis smile a little.

“So”, he mused after a while, not letting Gilbert off the hook that easily after been interrupted. “You fear getting lost in the war and dying there?”.  
Gilbert sighed, realising he got caught with his distraction.  
“Not really. I mean, yes, I am scared of not getting back and dying is not an awesome option. It's just in your mind all the time when you're out there, but it is not really that big of a fear. Everyone just thinks it is”, the German mumbled.  
“That's not what I asked. I did not want to know what you are supposed to fear. What do you, Gilbert, personally fear most?”, Francis explicated, trying to catch Gilbert's eyes.  
Gilbert sighed, complaining that he definitely needed more beer for this kind of conversation. Then he closed his red eyes for a moment. Upon opening them, they were stern and dark.

“Being different”, was all what Gilbert said.

Francis examined him silently. The German did not met his eyes, instead he seemed lost in thoughts. He never considered that standing out would trouble the loud and cocky man. But he was an albino, after all, and while this was easy to forget after you got used to him, Francis realized that there would be people every day reacting surprised upon encountering Gilbert for the first time. Maybe even more so, being hostile because of how he was born. Keeping in mind that this was Germany in 1942 and perfection and Arian appearance was particularly valued, Francis started to comprehend that being an albino might not be desirable for Gilbert. He could only guess whether Gilbert meant more than his appearance. At least, he had found out that Gilbert was left-handed, too. Another thing frowned upon. Francis could think of a dozen more things that could be considered different, less desirable or even wrong from others. He himself for example knew for quite a while that he liked both, women and men romantically. That was something that set him apart from others and exposed him in a particular way. People got taken away in Germany to wherever because they were different, be it ill, religious, politically unpleasant, attracted to the 'wrong' gender or simply having a different ethnicity.  
“You know, being different is dangerous nowadays”, Gilbert mumbled and finally his eyes met Francis'. They seemed to track down the same thoughts, yet none of them issued them out loud. Neither of them did break eye contact. Francis heard his heart unnatural loud in his ears and without a second thought his fingers reached out to touch Gilbert's hand, laying on the table, caressing his beer glass absent-minded.  
Gilbert blinked but did not move his hand away when he felt the soft touch.  


Then Gilbert's eyes did brake away and his gaze set behind Francis' shoulder. The spell was broken and Francis was thrown back into reality quite hard. And reality meant a tavern at night in Nazi-Germany, where he as a POW should actually take care of the few remaining guests.  
He withdrew his hand, stood up and turned to follow Gilbert's look. Silently he thanked God or whatever deity was listening that the only remaining guests were the old drunken lunatic of the town and three adolescent boys. None of them were really attentive to their surroundings, the first because he had too much alcohol and was already sleeping, the others because they were enthusiastically playing cards, despite of the time and the fact that Francis had refused to pour them a second beer earlier.  
Francis considered the situation for a moment, then decided that it was time to close the tavern for good, since everyone else, including the owner, were already sleeping. After a short glance over his shoulder to Gilbert, he made his way over to the Germans. He heard Gilbert getting up behind him, trailing him lazily. A bit of back up was not too bad. Francis stopped at the table of the boys, leaning down to them.  
“Guys, time to go home. You can come back tomorrow”, he announced in the best German he could muster. They uttered a complain, but gathered their cards nonetheless, so he went to the old drunk.  
“We're closing”, he proclaimed and as expected the man opened his eyes but did not make a move to get up. Within a second, Gilbert was at his side.  
“We'll get you outside and home”, Gilbert said in a tone between sternly and motherly. He helped the man to get up, placing the man's arm around his shoulders. Francis did the same at the other side and together they towed the man outside, following the boys. In front of the door, Gilbert pointed with his chin towards a bucket filled with water from the rain gutter. Francis did as shown, left the man in Gilbert's hands and with a spirited move he dumped the water over the head of the drunk. The man and Gilbert started to gasp for air immediately as the water hit them both and Gilbert uttered soft curses.  
At least, the man seemed to be able to stand alone now and Gilbert send him home, watching as he made his way down the street.  
“You sure we shouldn't accompany him?”, Francis asked suspiciously as he saw the man swaying slightly.  
“Nah, he'll be fine. He's taking this road for the last couple of decades, so he'll manage”, Gilbert shrugged. “But your aiming needs practice”, he complained, eyes accusingly set on Francis. Some light shone through the curtains of the windows and illuminated Gilbert's red eyes, giving them a mischievous glint.

“I'll bring you home when you turn off the lights”, Gilbert said and for a moment Francis did not understand what he meant. Then he realised that the light was still burning and that he himself had to get back to the camp. So hasty he went inside again, to collect their glasses and to turn off the lights.

They made their way down the hill. The streets were empty and very silent. Most people were inside their homes, often asleep already. Oil, candles and electricity were used sparingly and in a country at war being outside at night having fun was frowned upon. And who should be out anyway? The men, especially the young, were at the front, to fight and die for their country and its maniac idea of world dominance and the small town only had the one tavern that had just closed.

The dark streets and houses made Francis feel calm. It seemed like the whole world right now, at this moment, consisted only of him and Gilbert walking silently besides him, while everything else was sleepy and dark.  
The white hair of the German shone softly in the darkness whenever it caught the sparse light.  
They walked so close that sometimes their arms brushed against each other, and the fabric rustled, almost loudly in the silence of the night. They were unnecessary close, Francis realised.

Suddenly, Gilbert stopped.  
They were at a small crossroad. Huge, windowless walls in whose cracks green plants grew, stood at both sides of the road.  
Gilbert assessed him for a second but did not say a word. Shadow danced over his face, his eyes fathomless. Then he pushed him softly against the wall, kissing him.

Francis was startled for a second, then he came to life, reciprocated the kiss and put his hands to Gilbert's hips, pulling him closer. He could feel Gilbert smiling and deepening the kiss. They fought for dominance for a couple of seconds, until Francis granted Gilbert's tongue entrance.  
Light, hasty steps echoed down the silent street. They broke apart immediately, Gilbert stumbling a few steps back, turning away, breathing hard. Merely seconds later, Martha appeared at the corner of the street, only a couple of meters away.  
“Gilbert, Mr. Bonnefoy!”, she exclaimed, running up to them. “I told you to wake me up!”, she accused them, oblivious to the flushed faces of the two men.  
Gilbert cleared his throat and smiled at her slightly. “You were so tired. Besides, I thought I would be able to bring him home”, he explained, his eyes pointed somewhere on the pavement, not looking at Francis.  
“But that is my job!”, Martha insisted, stepping past him and grabbing Francis' hand. “Let's go!”, she ordered, pulling the startled French with her. Gilbert followed them a few steps behind.

The rest of the way Martha chatted joyful like usual, while Gilbert did not say a word. Francis tried to catch his eyes, but to no avail. To be polite Francis sometimes replied to the girls babbling or nodded, but his mind kept returning to the moment just minutes ago. Martha did not notice the awkward silence coming from Gilbert and the nervous glances Francis shot him, after all, she did not really need them to answer to her monologue, filled with childish bliss. Since they were already down the hill when Martha had caught up with them, they reached the camp fast. Outside, one of the German soldiers sat smoking, and he waved at Martha when he recognized her.  
“He is back”, she beamed at him, presenting Francis.  
“Thanks, sweetheart”, the soldier said, smiling softly. “He's the last”.  
Enthusiastic, Martha told them good-by and made her way back down the street. Francis turned to look at Gilbert, who stood a couple of meters away and still seemed to be very interested in either the ground or the others and looked everywhere except at Francis. When Martha passed him, he turned to follow her and left without a farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mon dieu = my god  
> Bachstelze, Spatz, Buchfink, Milan = white wagtail, sparrow, common chaffinch, red kite (Milvus)
> 
> AN:  
> Fun fact: The devil is depicted left-handed while playing the violin with his left.  
> Historic context: Being left handed was outlawed in Europe since at least the middle ages as well as during the NS-regime. Heinrich Himmler ordered a study in 1935 called “Zusammenhang zwischen Linkshändigkeit einerseits und geistiger Verfassung der Homosexuellen andererseits” (roughly translated to “connection between being left-handed on the one side and the mental state of homosexuals on the other”) in which they claimed both to be a harmful degeneration. I did not know this study prior to this chapter and now I do love the fact that Prussia is left-handed in the original story. It is very ironic.
> 
> And… I think Gilbert is panicking now. Of course he had to be the one who started the kiss – Francis would not dare to do this since he is the POW and would certainly end up dead or in a concentration camp with a pink triangle if his attempt would not be reciprocated. But Gilbert on the other hand is not that confident with sexuality (in general) in the original canon, so I think he would now try to chicken out, despite of his feelings.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kudos and comments. I have to apologize for the long wait, I am not quite satisfied with this chapter, especially the last part. But I finally gave up, new ideas won't pop up. Maybe I might edit it one day, but I think I'm lost. So I hope you'll like it nonetheless.

Francis woke up early the next morning. Outside he could see the sun extending its first light through the tops of the trees. Mist still laid over the river and covered the soft green grass.  
He had not slept well and after a couple of seconds he remembered why. He had dreamed about Gilbert and the kiss they had shared. It was a long time ago that he had such lively dreams of kisses and touches and remembering it, he had to suppress a blush. It was not the best thing to dream of a German soldier while actually being their prisoner, he chided himself silently. Technically he was not Gilbert's prisoner, that was true, but this did not make the situation any easier at all. He leaned back to the bed, looking up to the ceiling, watching how the warm light started to creep over it.

At eight Martha showed up as usual, escorting him to the tavern. He did his chores as told but his mind pondered over the kiss and the cocky albino. If Lis noticed his absent mind, she nevertheless did not comment on it.

The morning and noon passed and the tavern filled with guests. Francis kept an eye on the door to spot the familiar white head, but Gilbert did not show up. With the evening hours passing, he became nervous and Lis shot him questioning looks now and then. It was very strange for Gilbert not to appear since he did came every evening for two weeks by now.

When the last guests left and the albino had failed to turn up, Lis deemed Francis with a stern look.  
“What have you done?”, she asked. Francis threw his hands up in defence.  
“I haven't done anything!”, he promised.  
She narrowed her green eyes for a couple of seconds and Francis did his best not to squirm.  
“Fine”, she finally announced, sighing. “Then he's just the childish coward he always is”, she mumbled. “Or he got free beer somewhere else. God help him, if he did. He's supposed to get rid of his pay here”. With that she waved at Francis. “Good night. I'll send Martha down”.  
“Good night, Lis. Thanks”.

Francis stood in the dark tavern for a couple of minutes, waiting. The only light was upstairs and it dimmed the bar in a soft light. Francis tried not to worry about the albino who had failed to turn up. There was not much danger that could happen to him here in this small town so he had probably chosen to stay away tonight. The French did not know why exactly and did not like to elaborate the thought, so he tried to force his mind to stay away from Gilbert. That had somehow became a quite difficult task.

The next morning was quiet as usual and the tavern was prepared to receive guests by noon. Martha was sniffling and send to bed early. Gilbert did not come at his usual time and Francis somehow did not suspect him to come at all – when late at night the white haired man finally made his way to the bar and sat down at his familiar chair vis-à-vis with the French at the other side of the counter.  
“A beer, please”, the German said causally and his red eyes met Francis' blue. Wordless Francis poured the beer and as he passed it over to the albino, Gilbert put a flower on the counter.  
“For you”, he said, a faint blush covering his cheeks. “For not showing up yesterday”. He awkwardly looked at his beer and raised it to take a sip.  
Francis looked at Gilbert and the flower disbelieving. It was a single, bright red poppy. He picked it up, filled a glass with water, put it in it and set it on the counter, still scrutinising it. A poppy? What an odd present. They were quite fragile flowers and faltered and wilted very fast. Did it mean early death? It was red as blood, after all. Still, he could not avoid to notice that its colour matched pretty well with Gilbert's eyes, too. However, suggesting by its size, though, its capsules could be used for the drug morphine. It did not make sense to him at all.  
“I couldn't find a rose”, Gilbert mumbled into his beer, before taking another big gulp. Francis eyes shot up to him. Red roses were a declaration of love. Gilbert tried his best to hide behind his beer, the blush still present on his pale cheeks.  
“ _Merci_ ”, Francis said softly, smiling. Before he could say anything else, Lis came over. “You're back!”, she observed, smiling wide at Gilbert. “And you brought a flower”, she pointed out, puzzled.  
“Just found it laying around”, Gilbert replied hasty, playing the gift down. What a liar, Francis thought amused.

They did not have much time to talk a lot, since the last guests were already leaving and Gilbert emptied his glass hastily and rose to leave as well. Without a second thought Francis reached out to him and caught his wrist.  
“See you tomorrow?”, he asked quietly before letting go.  
“Sure”, Gilbert mumbled.

The next morning the French waited for Martha to fetch him. The agreed time passed and he still waited in the corridor. When asked what had happened, the German soldier at the door only shrugged but would not let him leave towards the tavern without supervision.  
The morning passed and Francis had made himself comfortable leaning against the wall and chatting with the soldier. The other POWs were already out working at their jobs around the town. When the noon came near, the door finally opened and Lis appeared, slightly panting.  
“Come”, she said short-spoken and lead him outside.  
Upon Francis' questioning look she explained that Martha was seriously ill and Mrs. Berger had been with her the morning so that Lis had done most of the work in the tavern and could not find time to get him. Now, Mrs. Berger was coughing as well, so to run the tavern at all, Lis had come herself to get Francis.

As soon as they reached the tavern, Francis and Lis started to rearrange everything rough-and-ready so that the guests would be able to come in the evening. Mrs. Berger made her way downstairs again, but had to settle at the chair next to the kitchen that Lis often occupied.  
“You're not well, either”, Lis stated and looked worried at her boss.  
“I'm going to be fine”, Mrs. Berger announced.  
“No, you can't cook when you are tired – or god forbid – sick!”, Lis said stern and herded her upstairs while proclaiming Francis to be responsible for the kitchen for the day.  
The French sighed. He was able to cook, but to French standards, and he had no idea whether he would manage to satisfy the German guests. He didn't deem their knowledge of the ' _Haute cuisine_ ' remarkable.  
But when Lis returned, she instructed him to stick to some of the simpler German recipes and promised him that she would explain the circumstances to the guests. So Francis started to make himself familiar with the kitchen that used to be a taboo until today.

“Kesesese”, a soft laugh was heard at the door of the kitchen. “So... you are the new chef?”. Gilbert stood in the doorway of the kitchen, his eyes glittered with amusement.  
“Yes. It's an emergency”, Francis told him. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, a bit at loss as for what to do next. He had not be allowed to enter Mrs. Berger's territory before and had no idea where to start looking for stuff.  
Gilbert must have noticed his helplessness, because he went to the sink, washed his hands and offered his help to look for the tools he needed. Together they combed through the shelves and drawers.

Lis came back, announcing that the first guests appeared and presenting Francis a list of simple dishes like salads or other small creations. Then she returned hasty to her guests.  
Gilbert looked doubting at the list.  
“We're going to manage this”, Francis said lightly and started to cut some bread.  
“Nah, you'll do this. I'll rather be the emotional and organisational support”, Gilbert replied, but smiled at his French friend and started to look for some cheese.  
“Well, at least I can't be fired”, Francis stated and smirked.  
Gilbert laughed. “Cheers to that!”, the German said.

“It's nice that you came today”, Francis suddenly said. 'I missed you' was left unsaid.  
“Yeah, been bored anyway”, Gilbert answered and shrugged his shoulders. Francis decided to take that as a 'me too'.

The evening passed with a lot of work for all three of them and in the end, after the last guest was gone, they gathered in the empty and dark tavern. Lis had gotten everyone a glass to toast to their success – the tavern had not burned down and the guests had been satisfied. She had poured them wine, much to Gilbert's distaste and Francis' delight.

Francis and Gilbert walked down the hill side by side. No one was up this late and the streets and houses were quiet and dark.  
“I've been to church”, Gilbert announced suddenly. “Yesterday”, he added in an afterthought, as if that would somehow explain something.  
“Confessing?”, Francis asked hesitantly, unsure of what to expect from this conversation. He hadn't seen a church from inside since he could dodge his parents attempts, the occasional priests in the army hardly counted with their hastily services under the free sky. Gilbert seemed strangely quiet and gloomy, despite of his cheerful assistance in the kitchen mere minutes ago.  
“Nah, protestants don't confess”, the albino answered, shrugging. “Just thinking”. He fell silent for a couple of minutes.  
“About us?”, Francis felt quite brave to pry further. Gilbert did not answer. It was as good as a yes would have been.  
“I'd rather not get killed over this”, Gilbert admitted quietly.  
“What changed your mind?” Francis asked seriously.  
“Well, I” Gilbert stopped. Then tried again. “I might be dead in a couple of weeks, anyway. Or worse, be captured by the Russians. So hanging out with you did not seem that dangerous after all”.  
The way he said 'hang out' did imply a lot more meaning to the word.

The next day Gilbert showed up at the tavern just before lunchtime. Mrs. Berger laid the table and shot the intruder a stern glance.  
“Good day, Mrs. Berger. I like to borrow your POW, please”, Gilbert asked politely, his arms settled behind his back. It remembered Francis of the stance of a soldier waiting for his superior to command.  
Mrs. Berger seemed to notice the polite tone and stance and looked at him softer.  
“We're going to eat in a couple of minutes”, she stated nonetheless.  
“Yes, but I thought of taking him with me now and the next days during lunch time. This way he gets some break, but I'll return him in the early evenings in time for the opening of the tavern. And I will get him lunch, so you don't have to”, Gilbert offered. He had thought this through well and to provide the POW with food was indeed a good offer.  
Mrs. Berger looked at Lis, signalling her to decide, like the last time, since the young woman mainly worked with Francis. Lis only shrugged. They started to work early in the morning and usually they finished most of their work by noon so there was time before the tavern officially opened. There was no need for Francis be with them the whole day and whether he had a couple of hours off during lunch or not did not matter in the end.  
“Fine”, Lis said and Mrs. Berger nodded in agreement.  
Gilbert smiled at them widely and looked expectantly at Francis.  
“You want to come?”, he asked, his voice was steady but he had a slightly concerned glance in his eyes. Francis noticed that Gilbert did remember the last time when they were out during midday and that he had chided him slightly for not asking for his opinion at all.  
So he smiled and nodded.

Outside Gilbert picked up a basked he left next to the door and made his way through the city and down the hill.  
“Seriously, are we always going this direction?”, Francis complained slightly irritated when they followed the familiar road that lead to the camp.  
“Well, they did quarter you in the best place at the river”, Gilbert pointed out. “At the other side of the hill there are the train-station and a lot of houses. Actually, most people are living either there or up the hill, so this side of the hill, where you live, is way quieter and prettier”, he explained. “Unless you want to eat at the main road”, the German added, shooting him a challengin glance.  
“I think they got us a place where no one lives so they don't have to bother with us. But either way, the quiet riverside is fine, I guess”, Francis replied.

Down at the river Gilbert lead Francis across the bridge they used the last time when they've been outside together and along the river. After a while the ruins of the monastery vanished behind them and the small street at the river became even smaller and started to turn into a little trail. It curled around trees and stringing nettles lined it.  
“I don't think this path is used much”, Francis noted as he followed the German through the brushwood, trying to avoid the thorns of the bushes and burnings from the nettles.  
“That's the point”, Gilbert said laughing, without looking back.

A couple minutes later, the albino stopped and then dodged the branches of the trees to leave the trail towards the riverside.  
At a spot were the sun shone at soft green grass, Gilbert dropped himself and motioned Francis to join him. Francis did as he was told and waited expectantly. The German emptied his basket, revealing bread, sausages, cheese, apples and a bottle of wine.  
Then he got a knife out of the basket and handed it with the bread to Francis.  
“You're not going to stab me?”, the albino asked jokingly while he tried to open the bottle. Francis looked at the knife in his hands and then at the German. He would have never guessed that he would once be in this situation: At a quiet spot together with a German soldier and despite the fact that he was the only one with a weapon he would not think of using it – except for slicing the bread for them.  
Without a reply Francis dismissed the thought and started to do exactly that. The bread was soft and warm in his hands. Upon mentioning this to Gilbert, the German smiled wide.  
“I just made it myself!”, Gilbert announced proudly.  
“Really?”, Francis asked in a mixture of doubt and awe. “What is it called?”  
“Awesome-bread”, was the prompt answer. After a short doubting glare by Francis the albino corrected himself to 'Sunflower-seed-bread'.

They shared the vine and bread and chaste kisses followed.

To visit this spot at the river to eat their lunch became their habit during the next days, unseen by suspicious eyes.

“I think I'm quite good at facing my fears”, Gilbert mused.  
They were at their favourite spot at the river again and he had pushed Francis down into the grass and laid on top of him, one hand in the blond curls. Francis knew what Gilbert meant – he referred to the evening when they talked about their fears and the German had admitted to be afraid of being different. Whether he meant being an albino, writing left-handed or else he didn't specify but by now Francis definitely included kissing a man to this list.  
“You're quite awesome with it”, the French stated to provoke a favourable reaction from the other. It worked perfectly as Gilbert laughed and leaned down to kiss him again.

It was late. Another busy day ended and Francis and Lis tidied up the tavern. Gilbert still sat at the bar, watching them silently. He had been rather silent tonight, Francis' mused. Not quite sulky but rather absorbed in thinking. When Lis waved them good-night and disappeared upstairs, Francis made a last trip to the storage room to look how much vine and beer the tavern still had, since they sold a lot tonight. Light steps followed him and when the French looked up from the barrels he noticed Gilbert leaning in the door, his arms crossed, a smirk on his face. His red eyes glittered mischievous. Francis smiled.  
“What are you up to?”, the French asked, getting well-known to Gilbert's ideas.  
“Nothing special...”, Gilbert answered, but his voice trailed off, indicating quite the opposite.  
With a couple of steps he was next to Francis. He laid a soft but firm grip on Francis' left hip and raised his left hand to Francis' chin.  
“Nothing special?”, Francis repeated, raising his eyebrows. That was answered with a suggestive wink by the German.  
“Nothing you'd tell others”, Gilbert mumbled and placed a line of kisses down Francis' neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merci = Thank you  
> Haute cuisine = “high cooking”
> 
> AN:  
> Red rose – it is a reference to the canon were Italy presents Germany with a bouquet of red roses and is quite oblivious to the fact that this is practically a declaration of love (romantic one). So be cautious around red roses. Though, for friendship it is safe to use other colours like yellow roses, I guess.  
> And I realised that I have no idea of how Gilbert acts in a relationship. Somehow I guess I don't read the relationship-fics (Russia or Poland don't make harmonic couples with the Prussian). So I am a bit experimenting here.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though this work is finished now I might go back in times and edit spelling or grammar faults (either I'm not able to see them even if I already read this fic numerous times, or they somehow magically pop up every now and then. It's an unsolved mystery). So don't be surprised if there might be minor changes.  
> Enjoy!

It was late in the morning. They had worked at the tavern for a couple of hours and Francis looked at the clock for what seemed like the hundredth time this day. He knew it did not change at all how fast the time passed. Still, he was eager for lunchtime to start so that Gilbert would turn up with his cocky smile.

“Yesterday Gilbert brought a cake. I'll convinced him to bring you some today, too”, Francis informed Lis randomly. He had to quarrel with the German yesterday but won with the argument that Lis would be incredibly happy if Gilbert would do it.  
Lis looked up from where she sat next to the bar. She had a pile of papers in front of her. Finances or reservations from the tavern, Francis guessed.  
“He was already here in the morning”, she said. Francis looked at her puzzled. Gilbert was no morning-bird, at least not as long as he was on rest and recuperation. And why would he bring the cake in the morning when he would come back again in a couple of hours?  
Lis realized his questioning look and that he was completely clueless.  
“He's not coming today”, she explained. Except that this did not explain anything at all. Besides of that one day, Gilbert had visited the tavern every night for three weeks now and during the last week he had come every midday, too, to fetch him for their shared lunch.  
“Gil didn't tell you?”, Lis suddenly asked.  
When Francis didn't answer, she groaned. “What a coward!”  
She took a deep breath. “The three weeks rest and recuperation are over. He's going back to Russia. Today”, Lis said, her green eyes apologetic.  
Francis still looked at her disbelievingly. Gilbert hadn't said a word. Of course, he could have counted the days himself, too, but somehow he simply had forgotten how much time had passed and that there was a world outside of this small town.

Suddenly Lis got up, glancing at the clock.  
"Come! We have almost ten minutes until the train comes and we'll need most if we run”, she exclaimed, passing him.  
Francis immediately followed her, when she made her way down the hill towards the train-station. Absent-minded he noticed that he had never been in this part of the city before, as they run through the streets.

Breathless they reached the station. Lis bended over against the railway building but waved at him, suggesting that he should go to the platform. At this moment, brakes squeaked and with loud rumble the train halted at the station.  
Francis circled the building and entered the platform. While people flooded the platform, chattering and greeting each other, far at the other side, a white haired soldier got into the train.

“Gilbert!”, Francis shouted and ran towards him, dodging the people who blocked the way.  
The man in question turned at the door when the French reached him.  
Francis realised that he saw Gilbert for the first time in uniform. A cold clump formed in his gut and he felt sick – not just because he had to grasp for air after running down the hill. Somehow he had managed to suppress the fact that Gilbert actually wore the uniform of his enemies. They had talked about the war and the armies, but being a soldier had felt familiar. Acting under orders, being send here or there, handling weapons, hunger and boredom was well-known to both of them. But in fact, Gilbert wore the uniform of those responsible of all the loss and doom of his people and their allies and –  
“Francis”, Gilbert announced softly, surprise in his voice and the French was brought back from his mind. The albino did not continue but leaned at the door frame, waiting for Francis' explanation of his appearance.  
Francis pushed the thoughts and feelings about the German army forcefully down. He would think about this later, right now Gilbert was important and the train would not wait for him to gather his thoughts or breath.  
“You are leaving”, he stated whispering, so that they would not be overheard. The sentence 'without a word' hung unsaid in the air but Gilbert grasped it because he suddenly had the decency to look conscience-stricken.  
“I'm not good with goodbyes”, Gilbert admitted quietly. He did not meet Francis' eyes and the French decided to drop the topic that Gilbert concealed his leaving and to forgive him for now.  
“You don't have to. You know where to find me”, Francis whispered. “You can write me”.  
“Yeah”, Gilbert mumbled, obviously not convinced.  
“Besides, you can use either hand, so I expect you to write me”, Francis insisted and beamed a smile at Gilbert and the German laughed softly.

The last people got into the train. Handkerchiefs were swung or cried into. Gilbert nervously straightened his uniform and took a step back. The sharp sound of the whistle was heard.  
“ _Auf Wiedersehen_ ”, Francis said.  
The door closed in front of red eyes. The pale lips returned the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auf Wiedersehen = goodbye (literally: see you again)
> 
> AN:  
> Thank you for reading!  
> I'm sorry for the rather open (and short) ending but I somehow liked the symmetry to the first chapter and my head canon told me that Gilbert may not come back from the eastern front, as many soldiers were not (he was send back in time for Stalingrad, and that would be cruel). My beta for the first chapter tried to convince me to let both die of Syphilis… so now neither is happening and you can decide on whatever ending you prefer, including Gilbert coming back healthy next year for his rest and recuperation again.
> 
> To the historic background: This city actually exists and they had French POWs. I don't know whether a Francis was with them, but one of them indeed worked at the local tavern and was fetched every day by a little girl. The rest is fiction…  
> I liked this set up because in contrast with what you usually know of the Nazis, they did treat their French POWs in this case surprisingly well (reasons are given by Francis in the fic). POWs during the wars captured by different nations is a very complex and interesting (and often sad) topic. Let's not forget how cruel a lot of the people (civilians and soldiers, natives and foreigners alike) were treated by Germany around 1942, but taking a different approach supported by historic facts was refreshing for once.  
> Plus, in my head canon Gilbert as a nation is quite a loyal Nazi due to the idea that the personifications have some unique quirks, but mostly act according to what either their leaders or the majority of their people do or think. Therefore, being loyal to such an inhumane regime seems fitting for Prussia. So a human AU with a different perspective intrigued me.  
> I am happy that so many people shared my joy. Thank you!


End file.
